" quo' he, an' shook his head,
"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,
An' choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' sae maun Death.
"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,
An' choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' sae maun Death.
Robert Burns - Poems and Songs
"^1
I seem'd to make a kind o' stan'
But naething spak;
At length, says I, "Friend! whare ye gaun?
Will ye go back? "
It spak right howe,--"My name is Death,
But be na fley'd. "--Quoth I, "Guid faith,
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith
See, there's a gully! "
"Gudeman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,
I'm no designed to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle
To be mislear'd;
I wad na mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard. "
"Weel, weel! " says I, "a bargain be't;
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't;
We'll ease our shanks an tak a seat--
Come, gie's your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house. "^2
[Footnote 1: This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 2: An epidemical fever was then raging in that
country. --R. B. ]
"Ay, ay!
" quo' he, an' shook his head,
"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,
An' choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' sae maun Death.
"Sax thousand years are near-hand fled
Sin' I was to the butching bred,
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook's^3 ta'en up the trade,
And faith! he'll waur me.
"Ye ken Hornbook i' the clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan^4
And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
An' pouk my hips.
"See, here's a scythe, an' there's dart,
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
An' cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a f-t,
Damn'd haet they'll kill!
"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,
It just play'd dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.
"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
An' had sae fortify'd the part,
[Footnote 3: This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally
a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by
intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary,
surgeon, and physician. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 4: Burchan's Domestic Medicine. --R. B. ]
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart
Of a kail-runt.
"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.
I seem'd to make a kind o' stan'
But naething spak;
At length, says I, "Friend! whare ye gaun?
Will ye go back? "
It spak right howe,--"My name is Death,
But be na fley'd. "--Quoth I, "Guid faith,
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith
See, there's a gully! "
"Gudeman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,
I'm no designed to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle
To be mislear'd;
I wad na mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard. "
"Weel, weel! " says I, "a bargain be't;
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't;
We'll ease our shanks an tak a seat--
Come, gie's your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house. "^2
[Footnote 1: This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 2: An epidemical fever was then raging in that
country. --R. B. ]
"Ay, ay!
" quo' he, an' shook his head,
"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,
An' choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' sae maun Death.
"Sax thousand years are near-hand fled
Sin' I was to the butching bred,
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook's^3 ta'en up the trade,
And faith! he'll waur me.
"Ye ken Hornbook i' the clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan^4
And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
An' pouk my hips.
"See, here's a scythe, an' there's dart,
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
An' cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a f-t,
Damn'd haet they'll kill!
"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,
It just play'd dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.
"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
An' had sae fortify'd the part,
[Footnote 3: This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally
a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by
intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary,
surgeon, and physician. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 4: Burchan's Domestic Medicine. --R. B. ]
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart
Of a kail-runt.
"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.
